


Wandering Hands

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Emotions, Flirting, M/M, NLP Training, Seduction, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7157258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your final test is to pass on your intel to an unknown agent at this location between an hour from now and nine PM,” Merlin announces, as Harry twirls the flash drive containing the intel in his fingers. “You will use your observation skills to determine the identity of this agent, then your NLP training to persuade them to give you information in exchange.”</p><p>“Quid pro quo?” Harry asks, with a bit of a leer in his expression, and Merlin smirks.</p><p>“Exactly.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wandering Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [solarift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarift/gifts).



When Harry wakes up after yet another coma, it doesn’t surprise him to see Merlin tapping irritably on his tablet at his bedside.

“So, King Arthur wakes from Avalon,” the quartermaster says dryly. “For…what is it, the second time this year?”

“You do realize I’ve been through worse, correct?” Harry replies, solely tempted to roll his eyes. “I’m assuming after some tedious physical therapy, I’ll be able to complete the Lachlan mission?”

“I assigned that one to our newest recruit.” Before Harry can protest, Merlin puts up his hand. “He’s fully capable of doing it; I assure you. Besides, you need to complete some evaluations if you want to go back into the field.”

“I could just order you to declare me mission-ready,” Harry says in his best Arthur voice, but Merlin only laughs and presses the call button.

* * *

As soon as Harry declares himself ready, Merlin makes him run the gauntlet of tests designed to test his physical and mental capabilities, then controlled missions within HQ, such as defusing a bomb, cracking a safe, planning a strategy to save a fake ambassador and defeat the mercenaries, and taking out as many agents as possible. Harry passes them all with a smirk on his face, and he keeps it on for the entire duration of Merlin’s debriefing of his next mission: hacking.

“And of course, you must get in and get out of the checkpoint under the prescribed time.”

“Honestly, Merlin, this mission is child’s play. You might as well just give me a pass on this one.”

His friend raises his eyebrow. “Absolutely not. Now, Arthur, tick-tock. Your time starts now.”

When Harry does pass the test—just as he thought—Merlin hands him a file over the table, and leaning in a way that suggested he was going to put up his feet on the table any second, Harry takes it with a confident smile

“Your final test is to pass on your intel to an unknown agent at this location between an hour from now and nine PM,” Merlin announces, as Harry twirls the flash drive containing the intel in his fingers. “You will use your observation skills to determine the identity of this agent, then your NLP training to persuade them to give you information in exchange.”

“Quid pro quo?” Harry asks, with a bit of a leer in his expression, and Merlin smirks.

“Exactly.”

* * *

The club is a posh one, but full of far too many strobe lights and the sort of music in which you had to shout over in order to be heard. Tasteful, velvet loveseats and long couches decorate the area around the dance floor, which isn’t too crowded, considering Harry decided to come in earlier than the prescribed time to get this whole farce over with. Scanning the room with impatient eyes, he tries to catch the eye of someone who might be trying not to get noticed by him, most likely someone who is a local Kingsman employee, as Merlin most likely wouldn’t drag a poor someone all the way from an international branch just to test Harry.

The bastard might, though, but all the same, Harry keeps his eyes peeled and talks to as many people as he casually can. Tonight, he isn’t dressed too formally, opting for a navy blue jacket paired with matching slacks and white button-down instead of his bespoke suit. He still has his glasses—a Kingsman never knows when an emergency may occur—and his watch, but otherwise, Harry thinks he looked like an average, if somewhat older, club goer.

As the night wears on, Harry rejects eleven advances and also many potential candidates for the informant, feeling impatient and frustrated. None seem right at all, and what he really wants to do is plan for a real mission—or better yet, find some place without horrendously loud, pumping music.

Harry sighs for what seemed like the fiftieth time this evening, turning towards the bar longingly when he sees a man skillfully mixing a cocktail for a laughing, young couple.

And before Harry knows what he was doing, he’s already making his way towards the bartender.

His dark blond hair is combed in a wave that reminds Harry of a sixties gangster, and his eyes rival anything Harry had ever seen. He can’t decide whether they remind him of a jewel of a particularly rich heiress whom he had to protect at her thirtieth birthday party or spring grass poking out of dark, rich dirt in Queensland, where he’d tracked a group of smugglers into the wilderness. A black bowtie is at his throat, contrasting with the crisp, white shirt that is rolled up to the man’s elbows. His arms look like they did more than mix drinks, but his fingers are—not delicate, exactly—but the kind Harry envisions can pick a lock or lift something from a man’s pocket.

The bartender looks up, just as the couple slides off their bar stools to lounge on a nearby couch with some friends. “What would you like?” he asks, smiling brightly.

 _You,_ Harry thinks, _before replying_ , “A martini, please.”

“A classic one?” the bartender asks, looking him up and down. “You look the type.”

“Oh, I love them,” Harry replies. “Twinkies and a 1937 Chateau d'Yquem are quite the combination, especially if you have a sweet tooth.”

“And an expensive one,” he calls over his shoulder, measuring the gin.

Harry winces. Of course, one couldn’t simply go and buy the Chateau at the nearest Tesco, and if he were a normal man, Harry would mention he had half of a bottle back home and coyly ask when the bartender got off—and of course, making a barely-concealed innuendo.

But Harry is well-aware that normal passed him by when someone told him the word Kingsman for the first time, so instead asks, “Do you come here often?”

The young man rolls his eyes. “Honestly, guv, I know you haven’t been courting since the disco age, but surely you know that the line has fallen out of style—if it ever was in style.”

Harry smirks. Cheeky. “Very well, then. How do you young people do it, then?”

“Usually, we nod in the direction of the one we fancy and go introduce ourselves, with a _hey, how’s it going?_ if you’re feeling brave. Maybe also go for a handshake. The bartender puts down the drink in front of Harry, then offers his hand. “For example—hey, my name’s Gary. Yours?”

“Henry,” he says, taking Gary’s hand. It’s slightly damp with condensation, but instead of smooth, soft palms, there are rough callouses, the fingertips slightly chapped, nearly as much as Harry’s. “How is it going?”

Gary laughs. “Good. You?”

“I’m doing quite well, thank you,” Harry replies, mind now at work. He sips his martini, trying to maintain a calm composure. “I’ll be doing even better if you could share a drink with me.”

“What a coincidence; my break just started.” Giving him a quick, calculating glance, Gary shoots him a wink over the counter, then in one, graceful motion, vaults over the countertop. “Mind if I borrow your drink?” He doesn’t even wait for Harry’s response; instead, he lifts the glass to his lips and sips, tonguing at his wet lips when finished.

“It’s good manners to actually wait for permission,” Harry dryly says.

Gary looks at him innocently. “Do you know the expression _manners maketh man_?”

“It’s a well-known adage,” Harry replies, still trying to keep his voice even.  

Gary smiles, sliding a hand up Harry’s right thigh underneath the table. “Know what it means?”

“It means,” Harry says, keeping his eyes on Gary, even though he could feel the whisper of pressure and warmth through his slacks, “that man is distinguished from beast because of manners, etiquette, and knowledge. Perhaps…” It’s his turn to touch, putting his own hand over Gary’s knee and squeezing. “You require a lesson.”

Gary’s pupils dilate, and Harry, while looking at him, can easily believe that they were the only two in the room. “Oh, you’re _that_ type of person, then.” His hand rubs slow, steady circles on Harry’s thigh, fingers grazing Harry’s cock, flitting away, almost like an accident. “Do you consider yourself a gentleman?”

“More than the brazen, young thing that’s groping at my trousers,” Harry retorts, moving his hand up, up, smoothing over the front pocket, then the zipper, then the other pocket of Gary’s jeans. They’re dark and smooth enough to pass for slacks at a distance, but also sinfully tight, like Gary had to be sewn in.

That idea has appeal. Perhaps when this is over, Harry can take him into one of the fitting rooms and have him strip bare, winding the measuring tape around his chest and wrists and watching him breathe unevenly until Harry reaches the inseam, and—

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” Gary says, running a fingernail up the zipper of Harry’s trousers. It makes a sharp, metallic sound and sends a shuddering vibration against his cock, a cold sensation shooting up Harry’s spine like a lift on steroids. “Gentlemen don’t molest young things like me in public.” Toying with the zipper between his fingers, Gary gives it a few teasing tugs, as if he’s going to unzip Harry’s trousers right there and then in the club. “They have the decency to escort me to a private room.”

Harry smooths a hand up Gary’s chest, pressing his fingertips against the thin fabric of his shirt. “Then, let us retire. Any place you’re thinking of?”

Gary smiles, encircling Harry’s wrist with his fingers, and Harry’s positive that the other man can feel his pulse leap, then quicken when the grip doesn’t release. “I’m definitely thinking of a place.”

Standing up, Gary tugs him around the bar, then towards a discreet black door that had a sign: Employees Only. Harry watches as Gary inserts a key that came from his back pocket into the lock, then grins up at him when the door swings open.

Harry frowns, resisting the urge to wrinkle his nose like some stuffy old man. But he has to say something.

“We’re not doing this in a _loo_ , are we?” Harry asks, and Gary laughs again.

“It’s a nice one,” he retorts, pulling Harry in and shutting the door behind him. “And private. Comes with a lock and everything.”

“Good,” Harry says, then kisses him.

In his youth, he had a reputation for being an excellent—if not the best—snogger, and he’s pleased to see that the title still lives on. Gary sighs into the kiss, lips parting easily underneath Harry’s ministrations, and Harry can taste gin and spit and peppermint. Harry moves one hand to slip into the back pocket of Gary’s jeans, then the other to slide through Gary’s hair, softer than it looks, scraping his nails gently against the scalp. He can’t help tugging a little—it’s a habit of his—and is rewarded by Gary’s soft, muffled groan.

Not a pliant partner in this, Gary responds, shoving both hands into Harry’s back pockets and squeezing brazenly, and Harry lightly bites his lip in retaliation. “Rude,” he whispers, drawing away, making sure to skim his teeth along Gary’s earlobe.

Gary shivers, ever so gently, like an autumn leaf. “What, you can do it, and I can’t?”

Harry switches hands, palm over Gary’s left jean pocket, and tightens his fingers, letting his nails sink in a little into the fabric. “Take off your trousers. I want to touch you.”

“Now, that’s direct.” Gary looks at him with a smirk, hands still neatly tucked into the seat of Harry’s trousers. “But why should I?”

Harry moves in closer, brushing Gary’s crotch with his own and thrusting up with his hips, back arched, like one of those dancers in the club, hands on Gary’s shoulders, bracing. Gary’s eyelids flutter, his mouth falling open slightly, and Harry whispers, very deliberately, “Because I want to go down on my knees and suck your cock.” Then, at Gary’s startled moan, Harry continues, “Or, you can pull down your trousers, bend over that sink, and I can push my fingers in, one at a time, until you’re wide enough to take my cock, or I can simply—” He then kisses him, dirty and wet and quick, drawing away when Gary’s tongue brushed the roof of his mouth. “I can simply kiss you there. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Gary breathes, “I would. But I’d like something else from you.”

Harry waits, hand sneaking over to cup the bulge in Gary’s jeans.

“I want you to take off your clothes, too.” Gary gasps when Harry gave it a slow, measured squeeze, voice becoming rougher for the next few words: “All of them.”

Harry knows what he was thinking, and says, “Why should you have more clothes on than me? After all, a gentleman does not strive to make others feel uncomfortable or inferior.”

“I’ll go after you,” Gary replies. “In fact, if you strip right now, I can make it worth your while.” He lowers his head, almost demurely, giving Harry’s crotch a significant glance.

Backing away, Harry slips out of his jacket, letting it fall from his shoulders, and then begins unbuttoning his shirt, keeping his eyes on Gary the whole time, watching as his pupils grow wider and wider. When his shirt is fully unbuttoned, showing off his bare chest, Harry tugs it off, folding it quickly, and reaches for his belt buckle.

Gary mimics his actions, and both of them go through the drawn-out, teasingly fumbling motions of fussing of unbuckling and unzipping. Gary holds open the fly, showing Harry the olive-green cotton underneath, allowing him to stare before pulling at his jeans. They’re as tight as they look, pink marks standing out on pale skin, and Gary breathes a small sigh of relief when he tugs them down his wide hips and thick thighs and muscular calves.

He curses when they tangle around his ankles. “Should have taken these off,” Gary grouses, bending over to untie his trainers and toss them into a corner.

Harry notes that they vaguely resemble oxfords, and has to look down to hide his smile.

Gary notices. “What? Am I taking them off wrong?” He then turns so his back is to Harry, and giving him a cheeky smirk, peels off his socks and jeans, then slowly puts both hands on the waistband of his underwear, pulling it down and allowing it to pool at his ankles.  

His arse is round and firm and has a mole on the left and a dimple at the small of his back, and belatedly, Harry wishes for the martini he’d left at the bar. And when Gary turns around, chin held up, hands at his sides, Harry wishes he’d actually drank the martini—in one gulp.

“Hey,” Gary says, and his voice is softer—almost shy. “You didn’t get your kit off. Feeling a bit awkward here.”

Harry nods—he doesn’t touch Gary again—and finally pulls down his trousers, then boxers, stepping out of them with practiced ease, and using his fingernails to unknot his oxfords. Without looking up, Harry crouches down and gathers his clothes and shoes, setting neatly them on the seat of the toilet in one pile. He still has his socks on, having no desire to put his feet in contact with the likely germ-infested tile.

After a thought, Harry carefully removes his glasses, putting them on top of the bundle, and finally turns to face Gary.  

Harry rarely feels self-conscious, but for a moment, as he stands in the dimly-lit loo, stark-naked, he does. Kingsman trains agents to be welcoming of any privacy, but to ultimately realize it was an illusion, starting with the two-way mirror and cameras in the recruits’ combined bedroom and bathroom. Handlers see him naked and gasping, bloody and animalistic, or sobbing and clutching at some gory wound or dead body. This is nothing. This is a mission like any other.

But the way Gary’s cheeks flush, ever so slightly, eyes flitting from exposed skin to more exposed skin, makes Harry feel almost dirty.

“Do you want to…?” he asks, feeling more like a secondary school student than an elite spy.

“Yes,” Gary murmurs, then repeated, a little louder, “Yes. _Fuck_ , you look…” His gaze wanders below the belt, then to his eyes. “You look…right fit, you do.” He then grins. “Come over here and kiss me again.”

Harry obliges, and the next few minutes are busy in what no one but a flowery poet could call conversation. In a way, the poets know what they were talking about; Harry kisses the slight nick on Gary’s right eyebrow, the long-healed scar hiding behind his left ear, the slight stubble on his cheeks and jaw, and the chapped parts of his lips, almost tenderly, while Gary leans his head back and lets him, his hand sneaking down to wrap around Harry’s cock and stroke slowly, almost soothingly.  

“I want to touch you more, here,” Gary says, voice lowered like a confession. “What do you like: slow or fast? Rough or gentle? Fingers or mouth?”

Harry pauses. “I…” _I don’t know,_ he wants to say, but it isn’t true. For years, he’s known what he likes, but looking at Gary, everything seems to have left his mind. Gary is eager and bright-eyed and almost fierce, and Harry wants more—he does—but he feels guilty about it.

 _He’s a mark,_ he thinks, _not someone you know._       

That’s meaningless. Sex is a tool like any other, and it’s become another thing Kingsman has of him, not just his hands and eyes and strength and mind. It’s not for love, and love does not survive in his world. It’ll be crushed or fade away or worse, and Gary, even as young as he is, will learn that soon enough.

Suddenly, he just feels tired and wants this over: get the intel, get out, get another mission, and hopefully, he won’t have any other run-ins with Gary more than he has to.

His hands move to fumble at Gary’s bowtie, then his collar, exposing a thin chain, silver against his neck.

“Hey, hey,” Gary says, pawing at his hands, “hey, what are you doing?”

“I want to kiss your neck,” Harry murmurs, and ignoring Gary’s protests, unfastens the clasp.

The flash drive attached to the chain falls onto the tiled floor with a metallic clatter.

Harry scoops it up, then puts on his glasses, turning them on. It’s eight fifty-two. Just in time.

But he doesn’t feel triumphant in the least.

“Where was yours?” Gary now demands, looking petulant, and Harry realizes his voice doesn’t sound so Queen’s English—East End, most likely, a Londoner. “Please tell me it’s not up your—”

“Oh, goodness, no,” Harry says, picking up his shoe off the ground and opening the compartment in the heel, showing him. “We used to carry a phone in here, then it got redesigned for smaller objects.”

“I didn’t know _that_ ,” Gary grumbles, but accepts his loss with a shrug. “Well, looks like you can go back in the field, yeah?”

“I can, yes.” Harry reaches for his pants, slipping them back on, and Gary glances around at his own clothes scattered on the floor and grabs at the olive green, sliding them up his hips. “You’re the new Gareth, aren’t you?”

“Yup, and let me tell you that Merlin got a kick out of the names nearly matching.” Gary holds out his hand, smiling slightly. “But I go by Eggsy. Eggsy Unwin.”

Harry takes it, shaking his hand again. “And I’m Harry. Harry Hart.”

Eggsy’s eyes grow wide, and his hand drops to his side. “Oh. Oh, _fuck_.”

“What?”

“Merlin told me…he never said…” Eggsy laughs a bit hysterically, snatching at his trousers and pulling them up. When he has his shirt on, his fingers try and fail twice to push a button through its hole. “Oh, god, I…I almost shagged my boss.”

“You mean you didn’t know—”

“I thought you were just another agent!” Eggsy shakes his head. “Arthur, god. I hear you’re like a cat with nine lives; didn’t you just get out of a coma?”

Harry starts pulling on his clothes, the mention of his title giving him a sense of how odd this whole situation is. “I did, yes. This was my final test, the NLP training.”

“And this was supposed to be mine.” Eggsy picks up the bow tie, assesses it, and shoves it into his trouser pocket. “I mean, I got it in training earlier—before the blood train test—but Merlin said I needed a refresher. Said I should be able to get your flash drive.” He winces. “Guess I failed, huh?”

“You would have had me if I hadn’t stowed it in my shoe,” Harry says, not liking the downcast look on his face. “Did you have a strategy? Merlin might get you some credit if you did.”

“Well, I at first thought I could bump into you on the dance floor and lift the drive, but I noticed you didn’t like dancing much, and you moved away from people a lot. So, I decided to bartend; Kingsmen drink like fishes, and I figured you’d retire to the bar if you couldn’t find the mark.” Eggsy shrugs. “I thought about just chatting you up, but it could have been weird, too sudden, y’know—stranger randomly chatting you up like that. Then, I saw the way you was looking at me, and—” His cheeks are bright red, but he concludes anyway, with a lift of his chin: “I knew what to do.”

Harry docks points from himself in his head. He must have been so very transparent. “Well, you didn’t do too badly.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna have to retake this thing again,” Eggsy mutters, then boldly states, “Hopefully, I get you again.”

“That would likely not happen,” Harry says, and decides to repay Eggsy’s boldness in kind: “Too bad. What would you have done differently, if you could repeat this scenario?”

Eggsy replies, without a blink, “Tire you out, then nick the drive.” He grins so widely that Harry can’t help but do the same. “I’d fuck you, or you’d fuck me, whichever worked.”

“I highly doubt you could tire me out,” Harry sniffs.

“I highly think I can,” Eggsy then gives a mock bow. “My king.”

Harry takes his hand, turning it so the palm faces downward. “My knight,” he says, voice low, and kisses the knuckles. “You know, you might be able to get the drive tonight…if you can distract me long enough.”

Eggsy grins. “Challenge accepted,” he declares, and moves in.

**Author's Note:**

> For solarrift, who also won my 500 follower fic giveaway and asked for this: "I need to see a hartwin fic full of sexual tension, where Harry has to be reevaluated before Merlin will approve him for field work again. Where Harry is a little shit, easily passing the tests thrown his way. At least he does until it comes time for the NLP training, where this time, Harry, the senior agent on the mend, has valuable intel (from another test) that he needs to pass on to another unknown agent sometime between now and 9PM.
> 
> Little does Harry know that Kingsman’s youngest agent, Gareth, has been put in charge of the lusty task. And Eggsy is, if anything, absolutely thorough when completing his assignments."
> 
> This turned out to have emotions, like the romantic I am, but I do hope you like it!


End file.
